" The habitual playful smile faded on
the kindly lips under the martial moustache. "Ah, you remember what you
have been told--as a child--on Sundays."
"Yes, I do remember." She sank into the chair again. "It was the only
decent bit of time I ever had when I was a kid, with our landlady's two
girls, you know."
"I wonder, Lena," Heyst said, with a return to his urbane playfulness,
"whether you are just a little child, or whether you represent something
as old as the world."
She surprised Heyst by saying dreamily:
"Well--and what about you?"
"I? I date later--much later. I can't call myself a child, but I am so
recent that I may call myself a man of the last hour--or is it the hour
before last? I have been out of it so long that I am not certain how far
the hands of the clock have moved since--since--"
He glanced at the portrait of his father, exactly above the head of the
girl, as if it were ignoring her in its painted austerity of feeling. He
did not finish the sentence; but he did not remain silent for long.
"Only what must be avoided are fallacious inferences, my dear
Lena--especially at this hour."
"Now you are making fun of me again," she said without looking up.
"Am I?" he cried. "Making fun? No, giving warning. Hang it all, whatever
truth people told you in the old days, there is also this one--that
sparrows do fall to the ground, that they are brought to the ground.
Pages:
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424